Between Us
by Pawfoot
Summary: "No one else could ever understand what it's like between us, and that's between us." Kate Nash, "Paris" An ongoing series of 221B drabbles looking at John and Sherlock's relationship. Some slash, some not.
1. Hold You Tight

**A/N-** I've had the idea of a collection of drabbles sort of based of a quote from the Kate Nash song "Paris" for a quite a while, and I wanted to have something to motivate me to do some writing while at college. Provided I am not completely swamped with schoolwork or out of ideas completely, this should update every Monday, because I like the idea of reviews to get me through the week.

Drabbles will likely all be in the 221B format and will focus on the relationship between John and Sherlock. Some will be slash, some won't. Also, I love when people give me prompts, so if you have anything you'd like to see, let me know, and I'll at least make an attempt.

Disclaimer: Don't own anything, sadly...

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><p>We can dream dreams, no one else can see what you made me see<p>

Still climbing tree, tripping up over fallen leave, but holding hands

No one else could ever understand what it's like between us

And that's between us.

-"Paris" Kate Nash

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><p>John sleeps better at Baker Street than he's ever slept since returning home. He puts it down to how exhausting running around with Sherlock is and figures it's connected to the way being with Sherlock has helped his other problems.<p>

John isn't exactly right.

His nightmares persisted the first week he spent in 221B. Sherlock noticed, saw how the lack of sleep affected the doctor. Sherlock decided to do something about them.

Every night, once he is absolutely certain John is asleep, Sherlock creeps up the stairs to the doctor's room. He slips inside and gently, gingerly lies down next to John. It is lucky Sherlock requires little sleep to function properly. He is always careful to return downstairs well before when John normally wakes up.

On good nights, Sherlock just lies there, watching John sleep. When he isn't wracked by nightmares, John is an incredibly peaceful sleeper. He doesn't toss or turn or mutter to himself. But at the first sign of trouble, Sherlock is ready.

John always tenses when the nightmares begin, and that's Sherlock's cue. He leans in, wrapping his long arms around John, tucking the doctor's body against his.

Softly, slowly Sherlock drags his hands up and down John's arms, willing the doctor to relax.

"I'm here," he murmurs into John's ear, his voice a soothing baritone.

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><p><strong>AN- **It was pointed out to me that John would be unlikely to sleep through anyone sneaking into his room, let alone into his bed. Which is a very valid point. So just know that I know that. Oh my god, so much in author's notes. I promise the rest of the updates will not have so much.


	2. Keeping Warm

**A/N- **Thank you so much to everyone who favorited or put an alert on this story! Like I said last week, if you have any prompts, I'd love to give them a go.

I wrote two sick!Sherlock fics, because I couldn't decide if he'd be really whiny and needy or if he'd resolutely insist he was fine even if he collapsed on the kitchen floor. So this week we have whiney Sherlock.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anything.

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><p>"John."<p>

_Ignore him, he'll stop._

"John!"

_Answering will encourage him._

"Ignoring a sick person is a violation of the Hippocratic Oath."

John sighed, getting up from the kitchen table to acknowledge his flatmate lying on the sofa. Sherlock sick was similar to a sick toddler, always demanding food or attention or John to make it better.

"What do you want now?" John snapped.

Like a five year old, Sherlock curled into his blanket, peering out over his knees. "Throat hurts," he whispered.

"I'll make you some tea," John said, returning to the kitchen.

"John!"

"Yes?"

"Cold."

"I'm making you tea."

"Won't be enough."

With some more sighing and some face rubbing, John left the tea steeping in the kitchen to gather blankets. He returned with both comforters from the beds and the afghan Mrs. Hudson had given him at Christmas. All of them he piled unceremoniously on top of Sherlock.

"Warm enough?"

"Still cold."

"I'll get the tea."

When John returned with the mug, Sherlock shivered theatrically, chattering his teeth together. John handed him the mug, and Sherlock took one sip before proclaiming, "Doesn't help."

Suddenly, Sherlock's arms shot up, wrapping around John, and pulling him on top of the detective. John's head nestled in the hollow of Sherlock's throat and the detective tucked his chin against John's hair.

"Much better."


	3. I'm Fine, Really

**A/N- **Ended both sick fics with the same word, unintentionally.

**Disclaimer**: Nope, not mine.

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><p>"I'm fine," Sherlock said when John stopped him at the front door.<p>

At least, John thought he did. Not only was his voice distorted by a congested nose, but his throat also seemed to be constricted. Sherlock's voice sounded like he had to force it out; the sound was strained and soft.

"You are not fine," John said, reaching past the detective and shutting the door. "I cannot, as a medical professional, flatmate, and friend, let you leave in this state. Go back to bed."

Sherlock shook his head and held out his phone, showing a text from Lestrade with an address.

"Tell him you're sick; he'll understand."

"I'll manage."

"You'll collapse again. You can't just ignore being sick like you ignore your needs for food and sleep!"

The look Sherlock gave John said he could very well try. The coughing fit interrupting it rather ruined the effect.

Ever since John had found Sherlock lying on the kitchen floor yesterday a constant battle waged in Baker Street. Sherlock maintained he was perfectly healthy. John preferred to look at the evidence; running a temperature, coughing, sneezing, sniffling, not to mention the whole collapsing on the floor incident, there was no way Sherlock should be let outside.

Sherlock moped over to the sofa and flopped down. "When will you quit?"

"When you're better."


	4. Delete

**A/N-** I got angsty this week. We should return to your regularly scheduled fluff next week. Feedback on this would be much appreciated, as it's been a while since I've done some proper angst.

Disclaimer: Same as every other week.

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><p>Sometimes, Sherlock forgets.<p>

That, really, is the worst part. The awkward, pitying glances from the Yarders when he looks to his side for the praise and a second opinion. Texting an out of service number when he's run out of milk. The way Mrs. Hudson's eyes fill with tears when he asks if he's home yet. Having to remember all over again that he lost him.

A coping mechanism. Sherlock's brain, so used to deleting any information he doesn't need rejects the facts, because he doesn't want them to be true. Except he doesn't want to forget, is tired of forgetting, is tired of losing him again and again and again. Tired of people saying it will get better with time.

Sherlock doesn't know how to make it stop. His mind, once trusted above all else, has slipped outside his control. Nothing works. If he lies around doing nothing, he forgets. If he keeps busy with cases, he forgets.

One moment he is wandering through London, convinced the street are not the same without him by his side, lost and so very alone. The next he is bounding home without a care, not knowing anything is wrong at all until he is back at Baker Street and Mrs. Hudson answers his question with a soft sob.

"Sherlock, he's never coming back."


End file.
